


Dead Inside

by simulacraryn



Series: Pieces of Us [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Challenge: Endless Reflection, Deathfic, Disregarding Frozen Teardrop, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, PTSD, Past Drug Use, Polyamory, Polyamory Done Wrong, TW:Implied Incest, TW:Suicide, ZERO System, challengefic, tw:death, tw:depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simulacraryn/pseuds/simulacraryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Goddamnit, Quatre!” Trowa hears Dorothy shout, a mess of dishes across the floor, as the man he loved merely tried to give Dorothy his best comprehensive gaze. “Why do you always try to make <b>me</b> change!?“ </i> He should have known better than to let this woman into their lives and their home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trowa's Observation

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do NOT own GW. They're all Sunrise/Bandai's deal. Do not sue, all you get is lint in return. 
> 
> **Prompt:** This is a submission to Endless Reflection over on: http://gwendlessreflectionchallenge.tumblr.com/post/115545913662/endless-reflection-the-gundam-wing-20th  
>  This piece of work will not affect the Personal Warzone’s timeline, as that is a beast all of it’s own. Instead, I wanted to do something different and show my love for Gundam Wing. One more thing, this disregards FT to a point. I am taking creative license with the new manga in order to create this work.
> 
>  **Pairing:** Normally I am a 1xR follower (don’t throw stones at me, I’ve studied Relena enough to comprehend her methods.) or 3x4, however I wanted to do something reflecting on my OT3 which is Dx4x3 and how the war affected them. Critique is welcomed, this little baby is born out of some personal issues and this is therapeutic to say the least.
> 
>  **Inspiration for this:** Episodes 47-48, the duel between Quatre and Dorothy, as well as Trowa’s line on how Dorothy could take care of herself. As for a song, “Dead Inside”by Muse.

**Version One:** Trowa’s Observation

_“Don't leave me out in the cold_  
Don't leave me out to die  
I gave you everything  
I can't give you anymore  
Now I've become just like you 

It was November 3rd, AC 208 - it was bitterly cold in Brussels and the plates that smashed against the Italian marble of Quatre Raberba Winner’s apartment had been _his_ breaking point in the entire relationship. For more than ten years, Trowa Barton had tolerated the fact that Dorothy Catalonia had wormed her way into his and Quatre’s love life. If the empathic blonde had paid attention when he had specifically told him that Dorothy could damn well take care of herself, he wouldn’t be needing to put down his news paper and begin the tiresome task of playing referee. Unclipping the Preventer issued side-arm and stashing it in the safe box inside of his and Quatre’s bedroom, Trowa ran a nervous hand through his own shortened bangs.

Thirteen years had aged them significantly. Trowa sported shorter bangs, some new ‘characteristic’ scars as a result of his work in Covert Ops for Preventers. He also was a jagged war veteran that _loathed_ when his morning routine was being disrupted. He blends in with the apartment’s furniture, siphoning with the shadows - the closer Trowa gets, the louder Dorothy sounds. With alert ears, he catches the tail end of today’s latest argument. It would seem Quatre has yet again ‘done it’ for Dorothy and her brand of insanity.

Trowa silently watched on, remembering the words that Doctor Gray had used when describing the situation they were in. “ _Miss Catalonia’s CT Scans reveal that there are parts of her brain that are fairly affected by her exposure to the ZERO System helmet. The Epson System ‘wave readers’ were laced with LSD and PCP to counterbalance ZERO’s propensity to cause it’s wearers exhaustion. The drugs also caused for some nasty side effects, besides the addiction, Miss Catalonia will be plagued with hallucinations and delirium brought on by prolonged exposure._ ”-It’d been Dorothy’s “death sentence” as Heero called it.

Anyone exposed to Epyon, such as Heero and Zechs were listed in Preventers’ database as unfit for combat. It meant they had been forced to retire. Dorothy, as chief Heiress to the Romefeller Foundation faced a different set of difficulties. Trowa and Quatre had found her during a diplomatic visit to the old Romefeller Foundation headquarters in Luxembourg - the woman had been deposed by a younger cousin of hers, Lord Silas Remsburg, a Duke of some European Country that Trowa couldn’t be arsed to remember. Dorothy, unceremoniously kicked out and essentially side cast, had refused to turn to them for help. Quatre being the empath and kind soul he’d always been, glanced at Trowa and this is how their hellish life begun. 

Little had they known about Dorothy’s condition. Unlike Heero and Zechs, years of ‘Romefeller Inbreeding’ had done a series of damage to the Catalonia blood-line. This alone made Dorothy a ticking time bomb, add in what Epyon had done and ‘BOOM!’. Trowa had done his research when compiling a proper biography for the late Treize Khrushrenada at the request of Lady Une. Again, Quatre just couldn’t see the damn red flags. 

“Goddamnit, Quatre!” Trowa hears Dorothy shout, a mess of dishes across the floor, as the man he loved merely tried to give Dorothy his best comprehensive gaze. “Why do you always try to make **me** change!?“ At this point, Trowa tunes it out. Here comes the drivel of speech that Trowa could care less about.

Dorothy, as usual, went off on how nobody cared about _her_ and how she constantly made sacrifices for their relationship. Except there was a tiny problem, there was no _them_ , Dorothy had certainly seen to that. Jealousy, disdain and constant negativity had become her trademark. Trowa had seen Quatre at the very verge of his wits end. But it’s not like his beloved Quatre to lose such patience. Dorothy was capable of killing any kindness in Quatre and had done so to the point of alienating the vivacious man from all his friends.

It’d been there and then that Trowa had enough and stepped in. His efforts, however, went to shit rather easily. “Dorothy, can you at least listen to what I am trying to explain?” He hears Quatre’s soft voice, never losing his cool, always trying to be understanding. But honestly, Trowa didn’t want to be understanding. He just wanted her gone, away from his home and away from them both. You see, Trowa Barton knew what Dorothy truly wanted. It was just that Quatre was _too trusting_ to see right through the attention whore. It’d been Relena to point it out, during one of his Security Detail assignments, that Dorothy desired the spotlight and craved it at Narcissistic levels. “Why should I listen, you and Trowa always go off, do your own thing and leave me out. How am I supposed to feel? You tell me, because -“

When she stops, it’s because by this point Quatre’s had enough. Trowa’s eyes went wide when the sharp knife flew past Dorothy and embedded itself in the wall next to her. Quatre was, and had always been, the less imposing of the Pilots. However, time spent with Trowa and his sister Catherine in the circus, meant Cathy had indeed, taught him some tricks with knives. This was actually _why_ Trowa had a safe for his gun. Dorothy had once trained Trowa’s service gun unto Quatre, and as a result, Quatre only has a rough thirty to forty percent of use to his right arm. Had Dorothy not been shaking, she would have focused her aim and shot Quatre through the heart as she had intended.

Trowa watched, as Quatre, fed up with the insults and the loathing from Dorothy calculated his move.

“Dorothy,” Trowa sees him, no longer a boy of fifteen - with hopes and dreams, with an endless supply of patience and love for the world. But he sees instead a man of twenty eight, jaded and jagged from an eternity of politics and running a cut throat business. Lines marring his once soft face, exhaustion always settled around his eyes and in this moment, a very hurt gaze over his eyes. “I can no longer do this.”

“Do what?” She asks, in that annoying - coy tone of hers. Another habit that pissed off Trowa to no end. However, there is something of a sweet irony- the first actual fight between Doro and Quatre had involved fencing swords. Now, cleavers and filleting knives. At least, Trowa thinks, there’s a pattern and history with their choice in weapons.

“Be your whipping boy.” Quatre spits bitterly, spinning on his heel and leaving the kitchen. He never once sees Trowa and that’s just like the L3 born European man enjoys it, because know he could slip into the kitchen and do what he should have done _years ago._

Trowa enters the kitchen, casually striding in as a crestfallen Dorothy lifts her gaze. When he sees her, he sees what Quatre was actually angered about. The woman was clearly off her medications, **again**. That explained the broken mess of dishes, the disheveled looks and the anger bursts. It made Trowa piece the fight together - without needing to make Quatre relive the intense argument. Dorothy got caught refusing to take her meds, again, Quatre had enough - prompting for the dishes going into the wall on Dorothy’s behalf.

Trowa Barton was a fine mind, he could even realize it’d been Quatre’s pleading with his girlfriend to please take her meds that did this. Trowa carefully glanced at her, shaking his head. “Say it,” He hears her command, spite laced in her demeanor. “Say how much you wish he’d just gone ahead and fucking killed me on Libra.”

“Can’t say it if you’re already saying it for me.” - There is flippancy in his voice, boots crushing what had been his anniversary gift for Quatre. “I told Quatre once that you can take care of yourself. It’s fairly obvious I was right, no? I hope you’re out of my home within the hour. I won’t have you endangering Quatre anymore than I already have.”

Aghast is the expression on Dorothy’s face, her eyes wide and astonished that Trowa had listened in. There’s a moment between them, before she leaves, that causes her to look around for any signs of the only family she’d known for over a decade. Trowa left the room, not necessarily following Quatre - but rather for the terrace. A cigarette and a glass of the bitterest of wines could soothe his nerves, right? 

It wasn’t like he ever loved or cared for Dorothy. He only put up with her for Quatre’s sake, because for some strange reason, his beloved blonde had believed himself capable of ‘saving’ the woman. Can’t save those who have no hopes, can’t make miracles out of a woman who was hell bent in dragging them down into her shit.


	2. Quatre's Insight

**Version Two:** Quatre’s Insight

_“You're free to touch the sky  
Whilst I am crushed and pulverised  
Because you need control  
Now I'm the one who's letting go”_

It’d been a week since the last meltdown Quatre had with Dorothy. Years ago, he would have cried himself to sleep for even considering reacting violently. Dorothy had killed that part of him, the bits that felt for humanity and in return as Trowa often noted: Quatre had become a hard husk of a man. No one could ever picture what he thought, not even his lover. He had made a mistake in allowing the blonde back into his life after she had tried to kill him in the battlefield. ‘It was my mistake’ Quatre thought, sinking into the comfort of his reading chair. The large samovar that Wufei had given him and Trowa as an anniversary gift three years ago steamed, informing Quatre that he was able to properly steep his tea. A platter of baklava and other sweets sat close to his favorite chair, a concession his staff made so that the Winner heir would keep some sort of ‘food’ in his stomach.

It’d been hard to listen to Trowa on Libra, to hear that the man would disregard someone in such a fashion. His disdain for Dorothy, Quatre had thought, was unfounded. However, he also hadn’t known how all of Trowa’s time spying on OZ had provided him a dossier on Duke Dermail’s personal spy. Both, masters of covert operations and with impressive poker faces. Unlike Dorothy, Trowa lacked a Romefeller upbringing and thus his skills were “amateurish” in comparison to the Political training that all Romefeller children had. But what Trowa lacked in ‘training’, he made up for in a quality that Dorothy did not possess. He was adept in blending in, while Dorothy was a rather polarizing figure. She stood out in her society at it’s proper time and no one was wiser to young Dorothy acting in behalf of her grandfather and the Foundation.

Qualities that made them very similar and yet absolutely different from one another. Quatre had been the polar opposite to the two of them, namely because he wasn’t capable of a poker face. Too many nights of card games and lost garments told him as much. Of course, all those nights were spent in leisure, with Trowa’s hands over his lithe body. More often than not, it was nights were Trowa knew he’d be deployed to who knew where by Lady Une.

Nights spent feasting of each other’s skin, the sheer memory making Quatre painfully erect in his business slacks. The same couldn’t be said for Dorothy, who had sworn off sex after years of being used as a glorified ‘blow up doll’ by the foundation. Again, selective inbreeding, Quatre had found, was the norm among the Foundation families. They had found out that Dorothy’s grandfather, after having realized that the Dermail name wouldn’t live past his daughters, proceeded to violently politically force the foundation to ‘find him a suitable woman’.

Dorothy, Quatre had learned, was being eyed by her grandfather as a source for future children. He was to coerce her into _marrying him_ , to produce heirs and secure the line of succession. Quatre realized then, by simple studies of Dorothy’s behavior that she had purposely sent her grandfather to his very death. Thus, opening the door for her to join Milliardo Peacecraft/Zechs Marquise in space. White Fang hadn’t been Dorothy spying on anyone’s behalf. It was a simple case of teenage rebellion gone wrong.

Because on Libra, the master spy became the pawn and as a result of Zechs wanting to get back at Treize using the only other person the man ever showed some sort of emotion towards - Quatre and Trowa paid the price. _Every single day._

A little more digging provided Quatre with knowledge that Trowa did not have available in his dossier, nor would it ever be considering it was Dorothy’s confession to him. “Have you had supper?” The question breaks Quatre’s reverie, Trowa standing at the door way. Quatre takes in the sight of the Preventer Agent he’d grown to love for such a long time. His husband, lover, the other half that made him carry on. Whilst Dorothy was their paramour, a girlfriend, there really wasn’t a connection between them as a trio. “I can’t eat - my stomach is rebelling against the thought of that wonderful falafel you made.” Quatre admits, resting his hands against the arm rests. Trowa had, in Quatre’s very admission, taken culinary classes in order to master Middle Eastern meals. In return, Quatre had taken up learning Japanese cuisine, as it had been one of the few particular cuisines that his darling preferred. Though, Trowa could eat just about anything… life as a mercenary meant adjusting to wherever in the world he was at any given time.

Quatre knew it was different with Dorothy. Her palate was accustomed to European dishes, she was used to lavish Cordon Bleu chefs and aristocratic settings. It almost sounded pathetic to bring it up, to constantly compare the man and woman he was with to one another. “You need to eat, Quatre.”

In Trowa speak, that meant they would probably get dressed and go somewhere nice. Dorothy was likely in her room, headphones on to quell the irritating voices that Epyon had left behind. Without much ado, Quatre swung his legs out from under his body and brought his body to stand. Trowa reached back to him, pulling the smaller man’s body up to his own. When their lips meet, it’s passionate - there is no avoidance or sense of ‘distance’, unlike with the other woman.

Maybe they weren’t built for this sort of thing, to be a trio. In public, everyone recognized Trowa and Quatre as a couple. Dorothy was merely seen as their ward, a damned charity. It’d been a blow to the former Romefeller heiress and what little confidence she had left. “What do you suggest, then?” The blonde says, feeling less overwhelmed and wondering why Trowa was so calm after having lived through Dorothy’s latest tantrum.

“Thai. I took the liberty of ordering take out. I do not feel like heading out tonight. I’m being deployed next week.” The last words come out bitter and Quatre’s eyes narrow to slits. Next fucking week was their anniversary and he would be stuck with fucking Dorothy!? “Goddamn her!” Quatre begins, using language that was only reserved for the board room these days. “Une cannot be fucking worse with her timing. Don’t tell me it’s those idiots on Mars again…”

“No. It’s actually the Lunar Base. There is a mole feeding intel to the Religious zealots on L3’s C-0937992. New colony, founded by some space worshipping religion of some sort of another. Just wish Wufei wasn’t stationed out on L5’s Colonial Affairs Committee, or else I’d swap this mission.” Trowa rants, lightly touching Quatre. “I rather be home with you,”

“I rather that too…” Quatre trails off, sadly staring out of the window. Could he take care of himself, like Dorothy could when left alone? “Because we need to discuss Dorothy’s condition…and we need to do a few things… I was on the phone with the doctors.”

“What is happening?” Trowa asks, worried about whatever has Quatre in such a harried state of thought. But how to discuss that Dorothy had to be permanently moved into a mental hospital due to the prolonged effects to drugs she didn’t necessarily want to ingest without sounding like a heartless fucker? The doctor on the phone spoke so clinically and now they are faced with a decision that couldn’t be done lightly. In truth, Dorothy was in no state to make decisions on her own. Nor was she capable of doing so, not with the constant second guessing and instant ‘take backs’. 

“Her mind is starting to get worse. With her violent behavior increasing as a result of Epyon’s constant warping, the docs believe she is best suited for round the clock care… I can’t make this decision alone.”

If they had been smart, the door would have been locked.

But even if it had been, no one would have ever predicted for in another room of the massive manse for a set of blue eyes to pop wide open. Dorothy Catalonia sat up, her hands shaking…

She had been listening all along, _from within her dreams_


	3. Dorothy's Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do NOT own GW. They're all Sunrise/Bandai's deal. Do not sue, all you get is lint in return.
> 
> **WARNING:** This chapter is heavy into Mental Illness (see warning tags) - do NOT read if you cannot handle open descriptions of mental illness, suicide attempts and the other implied things. Thank you very much.

**Version Three:** Dorothy’s Madness

_“Unleash a million drones_  
And confine me then erase me babe  
Do you have no soul  
It's like it died long ago” 

_“How sad, a woman that can’t cry.”_

That taunt lived with her since that fateful December back in AC 195. A lot of things lived with her, like the things the Romefeller foundation expected her to do. Dorothy Catalonia wasn’t just a spy, she was meant to marry her vicious pervert of a Grandfather in the hopes she’d mother another Dermail boy for him to shape and mold into the world’s next dictator. She, as a teenager of sixteen, could not disagree with the Foundation’s order. It’d been her (adopted) cousin Treize, with the help of Marquise Weridge to have called off the idea. Instead, Treize had suggested the idea of sending Dorothy to the Sanq Kingdom.

Her grandfather conceded to that, under the compromise that Dorothy be a Foundation spy. An unwilling political pawn, that chose to side with Milliardo Peacecraft in hopes of stopping his naive idea of destroying Earth and Treize. It’d been her cousin, again adopted, to have been her first and then, it’d been Milliardo whom had bedded her on Libra whilst under the effects of Epyon. Treize had been gentle, with a degree of emotion (albeit not all of it was invested in her, she was after all, means to an end as always). Milliardo had been the opposite of Duke Khrushrenada, in every sense of the word.

Milliardo had been manic, aggressive in his approach. He’d thrown her against the wall of his quarters and ripped away the confines of her uniform. By then, Dorothy had seen her future on Epyon, to be means to an end for Milliardo as she’d been for Treize. She’d seen the vicious carnal desire in his gleamed eyes, the frantic touches - the clumsy thrusting. And she knew she’d fake the whole way. That her needs wouldn’t be sated, they truly never were. Through Epyon, Dorothy discovered that she lacked an interest in sex, but desired attention and affection. Through Epyon, she saw her future as glum, haunted by the past and nothing more.

Though it’s been such a long time, she remembers that just like her cousin, she has no future and that this living arrangement is once more, means to an end - just this time her own. When she’s asleep, her mind becomes ZERO-Epyon and she “travels”, well, honestly Dorothy just hacks her way into other ZERO afflicted minds. She’s never been able to get into Heero’s, the man is a forcefield against anyone ever getting past him. But she’d gotten into Milliardo’s plenty of times… and she’s had her revenge on him time and time again.

Maybe she should stop that, lord knows Noin’s probably suffering as a result.

But then, there’s Quatre.

_“She can take care of herself.”_

And his damned husband, whose disdain of her has only made her feel more alienated from the fucking world.

She remembers the way Milliardo handed her the ZERO helmet, without warning of what he’d done to it. She remembers the violent wrenching sensations that came from the first drug overdose and how that bastard Quinze simply threw her in the brig for being indisposed. Dorothy could almost vividly recall begging Milliardo, poisoned by Epyon’s system, not to go through with destroying Earth and Treize. But what is etched in her mind, deeply rooted in the psyche of her issues is the way she drove that fencing sword through Quatre. How she wanted him to snap and kill her, to put her out of her pathetic existence…

She had even silently begged Trowa with her eyes to go ahead and kill her. But ‘she could take care of herself’, he’d said, wanting to spare Quatre’s heart. He’d done her both a mercy and a disservice in one sitting. She should have gone through with taking her own life. Still, she hadn’t. Lived to see the Mariemeia Rebellion, put down the Barton foundation once and for all. Miss Relena finally opening her eyes to all Dorothy had told her back in the Sanq Kingdom. 

“They should have let me die,” Dorothy says to the mirror, the reflection of herself stares back almost dully. “But no, not Quatre.” She sighed. In her dreams, she’d seen them in their beautiful apartment in Brussels. The one she’d been kicked out of and sent packing. Miss Relena and her husband, Earl Jacques Saint Baccard, had been gracious enough to allow her into their home. Dorothy knew it’d been at Relena’s insistence that her (formerly of) Romefeller Husband had let her in their home.

Truth was, Dorothy also knew Relena was Jacques’ “beard” and that he played his role so that she could have Heero without him getting too politically dragged into her mess. They lived the picture perfect life, on paper, they were brilliant. Saints of Charity, the people to be inspired by…but in the privacy of their home? Relena would retreat to the West Wing of the Manse, where Heero and she resided…

Jacques would join his paramour, Leonardo Fraticcelli, in the Right Wing. Both couples consciously played their roles and who was to say Leonardo didn’t get the perks of Miss Relena’s body from time to time. At least that was the rumor amongst the Waitstaff in the manse. “I thought you’d be in the parlor,” A voice interrupted Dorothy’s train of thought. The sight of Heero Yuy standing in what she considered her current “space”, made Dorothy feel touchy. Those afflicted like they were, are a known danger to each other.

“I thought you’d be under Relena’s desk, having ‘lunch’ while she tries not to moan on the phone to other diplomats.”- She answers callously, not needing to heed her tongue in regards of Heero. But the man shrugs, dismissing her crude remarks.

“I would be, except Trowa has sent your belongings. You really must have done it this time.” Heero’s comment cuts her deeply. A bitter reminder that she just has to take care of it herself. As she’d done before, just without relying on a kindness that would never come. “You can spare me your pity, Yuy.” She bites back, leaning against the wall. The wool shawl draped around her shoulders is pulled tightly towards her shivering body.

“Relena had the staff set a room for you.”He begins, soothing under tones. “Her only request is you are to see a doctor and continue your treatment. Failure to acquise to her request means she will take over as your guardian and you will be placed into a care facility.”

Of course, Dorothy thought bitterly. Bet that was how she got Heero wrapped around her blessed cunt. God, what was she thinking!? Relena would never use someone in such a fashion, right? She only cared about Heero and his well being, much like she cared about Zechs to the point of having him put in a mental facility until they could get his 'personality disorder' under check. But Zechs was beyond gone, that much she'd known from the last time she'd seen him in court. Every day she thanked the God above and his saints for the fact that she hadn't developed multiple personalities as a result of the bloody war. “I do not care what you think about Relena, Dorothy.” He spoke, coldly in his infliction. Had their ZERO connection linked their minds as it'd done countless of times before and is this why her dormitory was in Jacques and Leo's, so that he wouldn't listen to her madness? “But I will not have you disrespect her kindness in her very home, do you understand this?”

She nods, knowing that while Yuy vowed to never kill again...it did not mean Duo made the same vow. The man was a trained assassin for Preventers, one word from Yuy and she'd be gone and no one, not even Quatre would miss her. Not after what she'd done to earn his and Trowa's wrath.

_You should end it_ The little voice in her head started speaking, that dreaded tone of the madness that came with her disease. They labeled it a condition, slapped some pills into her hand… but no one understood how difficult it was to hear this blasted voice, daily, driving her insane. Not that anyone cared, right? They just wanted her doped on those pills, docile so that she had no voice in worldly affairs… _Yes, they want you like Milliardo...dead to the world_ It begins again, rapidly cycling. Heero shot her a look as if to tell her to cut it out, but all Dorothy can do is press her hands to her head – a simple notice to the former 01 pilot.

“I'll...” She begins, feeling feint and dizzy from the sounds in her head. Voices, all of them guiding her towards the ledge of putting herself out of misery. “Head to my room.” - Heero no longer looked at her and Dorothy took that as a sign to escape from the former pilot. Unlike Milliardo, who succumbed to all the bullshit Treize put him through – who gave up and became the insane mess they came to know. But Dorothy also knew she had to retreat away from the world, to the soundproof room where Relena would keep her until Quatre called to speak about the doctors. 

_You can't let him lock you up like you're the criminal that fucking wanted to destroy the world!_ Dorothy's mind went off again, as she locked herself up in the room. _They promised they would never judge!_ Another one went off, forcing Dorothy to cover her ears. Her eyes could only see yellow, little white letters in the way. It almost felt like she was wearing that blasted helmet again. Shaking, the blonde reaches for the little drawer next to the bed and pulls the small orange bottle with her medications. Struggling to open the cap, Dorothy grunts loudly. The shaking of her fingers, the way she can barely squeeze it so that she may pull it off and take a single pill. Angrily, the blonde throws the orange bottle across the room and grabs pair of her heavy space travel boots and pulls it over her feet. 

_Open it!_ The voice that is most violent scolds her, a few calmer ones continue to yammer in her head. Dorothy drags her body to where the orange bottle is and crushes it under her boot. Once broken, the woman falls unto her feet and grabs a handful of pills, shoveling them into her mouth before dryly swallowing them. “Shut the fuck up!” She hastily mutters, to no one but the reflection in the mirror that adorned the wall. “Quatre wouldn't abandon me...” She tries to soothe herself, but the pragmatic voice in her head takes over.

_How do you even know it? Trowa thinks you can take care of yourself. He's brainwashed Quatre against us! I bet, that right now, he's balls deep in that tight little asshole...while you're here all wet and wanton wishing one of them even paid you a fraction of attention. Why did you even agree to this? You're a Catalonia, you deserved better. You should've married Silas._

“It isn't like that!” Dorothy's mouth rushed, in the deep conversation with herself. 

“Dorothy!” The voice of Relena cuts through the door, “Dorothy, please open the door. It's important.”

“No! You'll take me away like they did Milliardo!” Dorothy shouts, forgetting all about the open window. She could see it, Quatre and Trowa were with Relena and Trowa's face would be that of a Chesire Cat, grinning. Happy that he can finally take her out of his life. She slinks to the plush carpet, tears threatening for once to come out of her eyes. They don't, after all, she's a woman incapable of crying. “Dorothy, if you don't come out, you will leave me no choice...”

“Dorothy.” This last voice, so soothing – appealing to her madness. Quatre, was he here to apologize for his violent outburst? No. She knew he would never apologize to her, not after she squashed every last bit of kindness in his heart. “The doctors called, you need to come out. If we have to come in there, they will come and take you away, it'll leave us no choice any more.” - Of course, it never had a choice. Dorothy's head whipped to where the balcony was and she couldn't help but to wonder if anyone would be smart enough to come up the damned thing? So she wills her body off the damned carpet and begins her walk, almost disoriented because the voices said it would be wonderful to go outside. To end it all. One last look into the mirror and Dorothy Catalonia catches sight of her very eyes, instead of their natural blue they are consumed by the red overglaze of the Epyon system. Anyone to have ever experience ZERO in it's true form would get a Yellow Overglaze, but she had experienced the nastiest boogeyman… and she would finally put it down.

She'd seen what it'd done to Milliardo, that kaleidoscope of Red and Yellow, madness taking over. It was doing it to her and the pills wouldn't kick in. She hears voices and Dorothy can't tell if they're her own or others, she just knows that the must stop. So she opens the wide balcony doors, the wind gusting through her hair and face, cool and beautiful Brussels skyline. Her eyes catch the birds and it's almost as if time slowed down for her, enough so that she may witness the most beautiful bits of earth.

With a shaky foot, Dorothy climbs on one of the chairs in the little bistro set Relena kept in all her balconies for tea time. With the other, she moves for the rail – staring at the trees and the world ahead. A deep breath, she grins madly and laughs. “Dorothy!” She hears Quatre scream from the door, the thuds of bodies hitting against the hard oak. Her hands stretch out and in those final moments, Dorothy's mind becomes overridden by memories.

Treize's softest of kisses to her hair, Milliardo's calloused hands on her breasts. Quatre's grip on her hips, the way he's thrust into her, sloppy and divine, like a clumsy god. Trowa's spiteful tones, Heero's condescending tone. Relena's pity and kindness. Pagan's loathing and murder attempts. The way she felt when Duke Dermail first called her a “whore only meant to spread her legs and birth the next generation of males” and how “without him she would have died.” – Lady Une informing her of Treize's death, Mariemeia's face when it was confirmed she was indeed related to Treize.

She reflects on how Wufei considered her one of the strongest women he'd ever met, with contempt in his body language. She remembers how Milliardo begged for forgiveness, how he was dragged away to that doctor. She doesn't remember ever letting go of the bannister, of how her body flew in the air when she jumped off the rail. Dorothy never sees the ground below, but only the escape from the restraints they'd put her in once the doctors got to her. She never feels the tree strike her neck, sickeningly cracking it when she imagines landing in the waters of the Mediterranean sea. In those final breaths, Dorothy only sees the good in her life – what little it may be and she feels _free_ of the voices. She feels Treize's hot breath on her collar, whispering she did a great job. _Classic, no bloodshed. Almost glorific and poetic, Dorothy._ and her blue eyes are still open, dulled and seeing the white lights. Was this even death? Was it another illusion caused by her fucked up disease?


	4. Two Lovers, One Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned out four chapters, but it seems I need one last chapter to bring this to conclusion :) Enjoy and please, R/R!

**Version Four:** Two Lovers, One Heart

_“Your lips feel warm to the touch_  
You can bring me back to life  
On the outside you're ablaze and alive  
But you're dead inside” 

 

They had been too late, Heero determined when he and Quatre managed to get through to the backyard where Dorothy's balcony had been located. The crumpled heap mess that laid on the grass was a grotesque picture of a madness he was glad to not suffer. Quatre's eyes had widened, surely, they have seen plenty of death. Hell, they had caused said death in the past, but why did this woman's demise seem to bother the blonde heir so much? Heero could not comprehend, but what he did know is he would have to call it in. From afar he sees Leonardo and Jacques, gasping in horror. Without needing to tell either man, they turned and essentially restrained Relena from witnessing the end of Duchess Dorothy Catalonia. Heero knelt and took a moment to study the angle of Dorothy's landing, from his calculations, death had been instantaneous. Trowa would be happy, right? This would be one less nuisance in their perfect lives.

Quatre shook, sinking back until he hits a nearby tree and sinks to the ground. From afar, Heero could catch Relena's devastated scream, her sobs the only sound in the distance. It feels distant for him, to watch the reactions towards death, making him wish Duo weren't off in L2 with his very pregnant wife or else someone could provide proper final rites. Heero, clinically and ever so unabashed, turns to face the broken sobbing mess that was Quatre. _Regrets? Why if only a few days ago you wanted her as you see her right now..._ Heero thinks to himself, wishing he half had the capability of being so heartless. But he truly didn't, mainly because he knew his views would offend Relena.

“Quatre, I need you to go...” Heero begins, feeling disconnected. However, the empathic man shook his head and forced his legs and body upward. Gravity felt heavier, his heart like lead and he had no way to contacting Trowa to tell him. Well, he did have the Red Cross – but this would cause a disruption in the mission. In the end, Dorothy wasn't important to Trowa. She'd been his mistake, his mess to clean up… oh gods, he sounded like such a horrible human being. But before Quatre could will his legs further, the faint sound of Sirens aren't far from the mansion. “Heero.” The distinctive French accent of Jacques breaks the moment - “Leo called the ambulance...they're bringing two. Relena's gone into shock, we need to take her to the doctor as well.”

Heero cursed under his breath. While he no longer was an active 'Field' Preventer, he would need his badge. He would need to call this in. He gives Jacques a single look that conveys all the former pilot needed to say. Yes, he wasn't fit for combat and he was retired from active duty. However, Preventers recognized the former pilot as a valuable asset and often called him for “intel”. “Quatre, go with Jacques… you will need to ride in the car to the morgue.”

The weight of Heero's words crush Quatre's spirit. The morgue, it wasn't a place he'd ever been. His father had died in space, nothing, not even bones remained from the destruction of the Resource Satellite. He'd seen death many times, even delivered it and he had never truly _seen_ a corpse. And now he had, but how does one wage war and never see death's true aftermath, the cadaver? With morbid fascination as to what would be done next, Quatre allows Relena's husband to lead him away. On his way there, he finds Leonardo holding a visibly distraught Relena. No amount of words would ever fix this… nothing he could do would ever get Dorothy back.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Brussel's spaceport, Trowa Barton is seated in a waiting room. He should have boarded the _Andromeda_ vessel to head up on to space in order to handle some affairs. However, the local preventers in charge of security at the spaceport had pulled him away from the commotion, disallowing him to board under a “Red Cross Code”. It's been a protocol that the ESUN had inherited from the United States of America upon the dissolution of borders. The once 'American Red Cross' became the World Red Cross and part of the services provided were 'Emergency Communication Services'[1]. These services, Trowa had learned from Sally Po years ago, were in the case Military families in the United States service branches needing to be in contact with their service men/women in regards of serious news such as illness, death and births. Whilst the ESUN dissolved all armed forces, the Preventers were now considered the defacto “military” albeit being more or less like the former Swiss Guard. Apparently, the WRC received notification that Trowa was required at home due to a family emergency and Lady Une, being his direct superior, pulled him from the mission. No one had told him yet of the situation and he's been forced to wait, for Lady Une to personally arrive at the spaceport. 

He was visibly stressed, a highly unlikely event for the formerly nameless mercenary. However the years and the war had certainly changed Trowa's demeanor. His ears perk when the locks on the door come undone and Trowa stands, saluting the entering figure of Preventer Commander, Anne Marie Une, Lady of Bavaria. Whilst Une was indeed, Lady of Bavaria – she seldom used her full peerage. Most people called her Lady Une more as a tribute to Treize's memory than anything else. Anne, as Trowa had come to call her, had preferred her Military Rank. Much like Noin loathed her first name and preferred being called by her surname, Commander Une believed gender mattered not in battle. Anne dismissed his salute, her eyes clearly swollen and reddened. Perhaps an allergy? No. Trowa knew the Commander from his days posing as a spy on OZ – Lady Une did not suffer from any pollen allergies. This only meant something may have shaken her into showing actual emotion. “Trowa, I need you to please sit.” She begins, meekly.

The hairs on the back of his neck are raised, a bad feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach. “Quatre called...”

_Fucking hell,_ Trowa thought, the worst of all still to come. “Spit it out, Anne.” He comes off bitter, not really pleased with being treated with the kid gloves. “I wish it were that easy, Barton. I'm having a tough time as it goddamn is trying to believe a girl I grew up with is dead!” The words are scathingly said and Trowa steps back, slumping into his chair at the severity in which Anne addressed him. He should have remembered that Une was as Romefeller as Dorothy is...no _was_ , because this is what he would be told next. Especially with the severity in which Une was addressing him. _There is no possible way..._

Still, Une, with the grace she lacked in the war and the poise she'd acquired over years of political activity made Trowa shiver in his seat. “it's about Dorothy.” She ends it there, not really needing to tell him much else. He'd already assumed as much, but he allowed her the moment to get it out of her system. Part of the grievance process, he figures. “How?” He asks, emotionless in his tone. He had never cared much for the blonde, she'd been Quatre's mistake and now he truly didn't know what else to say. Would he need to pretend at a funeral for a woman he'd wanted gone so badly that he hoped she'd die? Would it be hypocritical? He doesn't know, as green eyes look into the distance. “She jumped off the balcony of Minister Darlian's home in the outskirts of town.”- Figures Dorothy would go for the grand gesture and drag people down in her miserable path of self-destruction, Trowa snidely observes.

“She didn't hurt anyone else in her stupidity, did she?” He asks, quick to sound as if he was blaming her for her own death. Anne looks back at him, disgusted in his sheer lack of care. The lack of pretense, he notes, will only make him lose Quatre. “Trowa, you may have an issue with the way Dorothy was and in case you forgot: Quatre is no innocent flower either. ZERO was responsible for him destroying a colony full of civilians. And you're not bloodless either, if you rather I begin digging skeletons from your closet.” - She doesn't pull punches, nor does she withhold his past from him. It's like being on a cloud and then being dredged back to the muck called Earth. Unsure of how to response, Trowa leans back into the chair – breathing in deeply. He doesn't apologize and Anne doesn't expect him to, it'd be wholly pathetic to even consider that any of them would ever truly say the words 'I'm sorry' towards one another.

“I'm pulling you from the mission.” Her voice cuts through, cold and distant. Her personalities are in check, that much Trowa can directly tell. “What!?” He still dares himself to question her decision, but Anne wouldn't take such bullshit from him. She remains steeled in her disposition, leaning against the cold wall of the room. The look in her eyes tells Trowa she will not take his shit today.

“You heard me. You will not go on this mission, Agent Nymph will be taking over the project while you go on and go home. Quatre needs you, preparations need to be done...and if I know your husband, I can possibly bet the doctors had to sedate him by now.”

Her words resonate within him, this wasn't about Dorothy at this point… but about Quatre. That he could deal with. “Where is he?”Trowa brings himself to ask, wondering what Anne may be holding back from him.

“The morgue, he had to leave instructions on what he'd like done with the deceased. Minister Darlian was taken to the hospital, Count Saint Baccard and a few others are there to help her through as she saw the cadaver. Quatre saw her too, Heero is with him.” Une states before turning on her heel. “I am heading up there in a helicopter, the media frenzy is already going off.” He follows her, silence between them as soon as they sprint off for the helipad. Trowa felt like a ten ton brick had crushed him under it's weight. 

The insanity begins with the paparazzi, Heero quickly guiding Leonardo and Jacques into the hospital. Once inside the lobby, a preventer agent takes them away to one of the small briefing rooms. It's a flurry, a blur of words and Trowa is barely attentive. He catches the basics, but it isn't enough for him. No word of Quatre's status, only the political ramifications of a body and suicide occurring in Relena and Jacques' home. It's clinical, how they handle the deceased and the way Dorothy is viewed as just 'a cadaver'. In death, just like in life, Dorothy Catalonia is dehumanized. And it forces Trowa Barton to pause, reflecting on something he was guilty of doing: he was just as guilty of what he was demonizing. How hadn't he noticed it?

“Trowa,” A voice breaks him again from his reverie, this time it's Heero. They're alone, and he could only imagine Jacques is doing his 'husbandly' duty and being seen at Relena's side while the doctor checks up on her. Leonardo was likely handling the press, it was, after all his job. So it's just him and Heero, one of the last remaining ZERO Life systems. “Quatre has taken this extremely hard. He advised us against calling you, something about the possibility of a poor reaction on your behalf. Now, he doesn't know you were called in.” Son of a … then who did? He thinks, but Heero holds up a hand to stall him from speaking. “I called Une. Leonardo called in the Cross. Something about proper protocol. Either way, Une was going to pull you from the mission.”

Stunned, Trowa runs a hand through his now relatively shorter bangs. Had he really been so rotten? No, don't answer that.

“So if I were you, I'd pipe it with my opinion regarding Catalonia and be there for _your_ husband.” - Heero, ever so stoic, turns on his heel and exits the room. Trowa Barton is left, mouth agape. He finds the exit, asking a nurse where the Morgue is and proceeds to go down that way. From the background, where the TV is on – and from the corner of his non-expose eye, Trowa spots the local news channel's “breaking news”. **Duchess Dorothy Catalonia commits suicide at Darlian-Saint Baccard mansion** reads on the bottom bump and Trowa feels sickened to his stomach. Relena and Jacques did not need the added bad publicity… they hadn't deserved that shit at all. “Goddamn it all,” He mutters, wishing his legs could move him faster to the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] http://www.redcross.org/find-help/military-families/emergency-communication-services


	5. Tragica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god, this chapter was hard to write. I know I have plenty more left for this story, but, wrapping it up like this also leaves room open for a Sequel. Thank you to all who have read, reviews and feedback are certainly welcomed.
> 
> I apologize for the tragedy and abuse, this story came from a very messed up place in my personal life and draws from some experiences. It doesn't necessarily play out the way it does in this story. 
> 
> So here it is, my completed entry for Endless Reflection 2015 :)

**The Finale:** Tragica

_“You've taught me to lie_  
Without a trace  
And to kill with no remorse  
On the outside I'm the greatest guy  
Now I'm dead inside!” 

 

Cold shivers run up Quatre's spine when he is led to the morgue by the young coroner. Her name is Manon Smets, she says to him and from there Quatre is tuning out the entire dribble of data he is receiving. For a moment, he considered being rude towards the woman telling her that he needed time alone. Time to grieve and understand what was laid out before him. Doctor Smets figures it out and wordlessly leaves him alone and in that moment, Quatre couldn't believe what he was witnessing. There, on the cold stainless steel slab, laid a body under a sheet. From the sides where her head was covered, blonde locks spilled, like a radiant halo that should've remaining shining. What had they done? The guilt consumed his heart, especially after approaching with caution. He half expected her to raise up, scream surprise and throttle him for what he'd done. Trepidation sets in his beating heart, twitching fingers move to touch the harsh cheap cotton cloth they used to cover up Dorothy. Why if she were alive, she'd scoff and demand she be covered with the finest linens. There is no noise, just ghastly sighing on his part, forcing his body to calm down. It wasn't like when Heero had seemingly died, back then he'd pried his eyes from the monitors, horrified by what had gone down.

Now Quatre Winner couldn't hide from the truth and with conviction, he lifts the sheet and strips it off her body. Ashen, her neck still slightly twisted – but nothing in comparison to when she'd died. Apparently they had managed to put some of it back in place before rigor mortis set in. Quatre placed a hand over her ashen, cold one. He is taken aback by how stiff the body is and he looks away, Doctor Smets nodding in his direction. She leaves, letting him know that he was welcome to ask anything. He takes in a sharp breath, the image of her blonde hair, greyish features, mulberry colored lips makes him think of her as the Winter Queen. 

“What have I done...” He begins, unable to control his remorse, body trembling. “I tried, we both tried and it never worked. We became poisonous and I always believed you to be stronger than the words we said, than the shit we did.” Quatre lets the curse slip, like a dirty prayer on his tongue, a light hiss. Did he love her, ever? Breathing in, he feels like he's made the mistake of his life by coming here. “I thought I could save you, but I only… I drove you to this. Dorothy,” He stops, sharp breath caught in his throat. This wasn't the times for what if's and possibilities.

It was reality, when he spots where Dorothy is marked for the “Y” incision, for the autopsy he won't bare witness to. Quatre can't stop staring at the body he'd known so well, of his companion in misery and the bane of his existence. How pathetic he was, they'd been petty. “I can never be forgiven for this.”

“You weren't equipped for this,” The deep baritone that had become Trowa's voice cuts like a knife. It's both a surprise and a sad reality that someone had pulled Trowa from his mission to come deal with his latest disaster. “Neither of us were.” Of course not, Teenage Terrorist turned Heroes of the world – side by side with one of their sworn enemies. It was a cocktail for disaster, chaos and self-destruction. Quatre turned to face Trowa, the feint scent of cigarette smoke clung unto him like a second skin. Odds were Duo had probably joined him via Vid-Comm in partaking the habit. Glorious. He doesn't want to leave her there, clear by the distraught look in his eyes when Trowa tries to pull him away. “Quatre, they need to do the autopsy...”

“What if she...gets cold?”

The words catch Trowa off guard entirely and he realizes that this wasn't Quatre at all speaking. This wasn't the mouth of an adult, but suddenly, a frightened child looking at his first corpse. He'd seen too many of them during his days as a mercenary that he'd become so… _desensitized_ to death. He'd been going about it all wrong, about life, about death and it _hits_ like a violent rip current, threatening to drag him into a sea of which he cannot escape. This was reality, that the war was over and death wasn't cheap, it was meaningful and the way Quatre trembled when he tried to pull him away was just as wrenching. He wanted to callously celebrate the death of his nemesis and he found it in such poor taste to even try, in front of Quatre.

He wanted to dance and savor the moment of Dorothy Catalonia's downfall, but this slight victory was marred by Quatre's compassionate tone. “She'll be alright.” Trowa says, dispassionately as Doctor Smets lifts the white sheet. The image in itself makes the empath break his remaining composure and Trowa is left no choice but to scoop the smaller man unto his arms and carry him away. Maybe this time, Quatre would accept the Psychological Therapy he too, had been denying he needed. They were broken down, tired veterans, that had done nothing but to fight to keep the fragile peace of the world.

Dorothy's words from when they had spent the first couple of years living together finally made sense, they had been putting off their own healing process and judged her for abandoning hers. Their situations were different, she, a schizophrenic that refused to follow doctors orders. They, a pair of former Gundam Pilots that thought themselves to be invincible. Stepping outside of the morgue, walking the sterile halls of the hospital gave Trowa a feeling of unease. Heero had been right about how much Quatre needed him, especially as the man sobbed silently into the leather of his Preventer uniform.

They get to where the others were. Heero, typing into a tablet and going through all sorts of hoops to keep Relena's safety in first priority. Jacques and Leonardo, absent in their attempts to keep the media pacified. He lays down Quatre on a single cot, when Heero's eyes turn to him. Cobalt and Green meet, cold and calculating – serene and menacing. “There's been a leak”

“Save it. I'll have Iria have one of the other sisters handle it. He is in no condition to handle the fucking vultures.” - He snips, hoping to god they'd all die in a rampant fire and leave his husband alone. When the door opens, revealing a groggy looking Relena Darlian – Trowa did not dare address the woman. They had created a massive three ring media circus when she had announced to the world that she would be cutting back on her political aspirations in order to “have a family with her Husband Jacques”. Though, Saint Baccard wouldn't likely be the father of her child. Odds were, it'd be Heero… damnit all, stop it Trowa. When Heero looks over to his girlfriend, there is a succinct change in his demeanor. Worried crossed his often dull eyes. “I'm fine.” She answers honestly, looking as if she'd been given a mild sedative. “Have you told them yet?”

There is an uncomfortable silence. Heero shook his head and Trowa is left wondering. However the honey haired woman turned to face him. “The media plans to hound Quatre. Jacques arranged for him to be taken to a clinic that specializes in grief management…Lady Une is also making you enroll. For your own good..”

Of course, leave it to Relena to think of the political ramifications this could have on Quatre. “Lady Une is full of shit.” He spits out, angry at the decisions made by Anne. 

So in the end, Dorothy won.

She got Quatre to break into a husk and she got him taken down a few pegs.

All at the expense of her very life. How ironic, no? 

“Trowa, this isn't a mean to just force you into therapy. But Quatre needs it, you saw how well he reacted to his own father dying in ninety-five. You may not realize it, because ZERO had a complete reaction with you,” Heero pointed out, in that nonchalant tone of his - “And you never saw the aftermath of how Quatre dealt with the thought of losing you either. But, Quatre can't handle grief. Just like Zechs couldn't handle his constant hat changes...”

So this hadn't even been Relena's idea. It'd been Heero's, always with the pre-emptive strike on the sleeve. He was, perhaps, the better adjusted one out of them. But was he really? “And what ticks you off?” Trowa responds, bitterness filling his voice. Heero looked at the ground and Relena moved her hand in between them.

“My tick is actually the thought of killing another pacifist...” Relena and Trowa both looked at him wide-eyed. Heero wasn't bothered by ZERO, the damage was counteracted by all the training he did to even master the system. He didn't run like Duo did. And Wufei, like Trowa, acted differently with it's help. But Heero's tick was killing Relena. That was… _why he didn't marry her himself_ , right? It had to be. That he allowed for her to be Saint Baccard's beard, and that… God, so that if he were to ever become as unhinged as Dorothy, she wouldn't be left alone should he opt to kill himself. And how did Trowa figure this one out? Rather easy, that time spent with Heero was enough to give him insight in the other man. “Heero,” Trowa began.

“Trowa, you don't understand why we're doing this. But please...talk to Quatre and do this.”

Heero interrupted him, before taking Relena away with him to speak with her in private. Trowa waited, until Quatre woke up. The blonde looked so confused, like a duckling looking for a home and it shattered him to realize he was going to drop a bombshell. But the underlying sadness in Quatre's eyes convinced him that this was a mercy at best. “Quatre,” He begins, but the blonde crushes Trowa under a hug. “Quatre, listen...”

“I can't be here.”

“I know. Come...we need to go somewhere. The media will eat you up and you need help. **We both do** ”

From the corner of his eye, Trowa saw the door open. Relena allowed Sally Po to enter the room, followed by Preventer Agents donning “orderly” outfits. Trowa recognized them, but didn't need to ask further. It was for their own protection and they would be alright. Or would they? They both put up no fuss, just follow the path led by Sally and the men. Something about this did not sit right in Trowa's stomach, the way Sally eyed him.

He had a feeling this nightmare was far from over.


End file.
